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Super Bowl XLII And Gym Class

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					A bunch of us guys were sitting around the office this morning, on one of
our many unauthorized coffee breaks, discussing the more macho topics of
the world, including how much tarragon to use in chicken peppercini; how
much we adored Winona Ryder in "Little Women"; and whether Bob's
sweater went with his shoes. Just kidding. We were talking sports. In
particular, Superbowl XLII, where the New York Giants squeaked by the New
England Patriots by a score of 17-14. An exciting game, to say the
least.I'd like to congratulate the underdog Giants and to personally
thank Eli Manning for reminding me that I have a coronary condition. I'd
also like to say that the Patriots put up a good fight, even though Tom
Brady was sacked more than the apples at the A&P checkout.I guess the
point that I'm trying to make is I like sports, but only to the point to
where I'm interested if the local teams are having a winning season.
From there, my mind starts to wander.The reason I'm not an easy-chair-
sittin', beer-sippin', cigar-smokin', feet-on-the-Ottoman-restin' sports
fanatic stems from my school days and my infinite dislike of gym class.In
school, I was convinced that the cooler you were, the more coordinated
you were. I was not cool. I was the one who, when it came time to
choose up sides to play games, didn't get picked until everyone else got
picked, and that included Bobby Taylor's dog.Team Captain #1: You've got
Megill.Team Captain #2: I don't want him. I'll take that shrub over
there.(Not what one would call a real confidence builder.)Gym class was
always a nightmare for me. I remember, in junior high school, we were
playing baseball and I got stuck out in right field. That's where they
always stick the bad players, because it's unlikely that a ball would
make it that far. You often see right fielders, out there,
playing solitaire on the ground, or cooking a steak over an open
flame.Anyway, it was the bottom of the ninth, two outs and all our team
had to do was get this last guy out. Unfortunately, it was Tony
DeGrassi, an eighth grade mutant with a pituitary problem who, as you
might have guessed, hit a high, fly ball right to me.In the movies, I
would have shown great fear on my face as I stuck my glove in the air,
and with beads of perspiration pouring down from my forehead, have the
ball land in my glove. Well, that's exactly what I did... except the
ball landed ten feet behind me.The other team scored three runs and won
the game. My team showed their appreciation for my vigilant effort by
shouting unusual and creative names at me. Many of them not fit for
publication in this column.The scene in the locker room was even more
devastating with laughing, more name calling and being on the receiving
end of some humiliating towel-snapping. Even Mr. Talbot, my
gym teacher, who always used to call me "Magilla Gorilla", joined in the
fun. I couldn't have felt any worse.I did the only thing I knew I could
do to make myself feel a little better and justified. While everyone was
in the showers, I grabbed as many unlocked combination locks off the
lockers, switched them around and locked them.I can still remember
walking down the hall to my next class and seeing Mr. Talbot running down
the hall, in the opposite direction, mumbling under his breath and
carrying a large set of bolt cutters.Revenge is sweet.

				
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